


Take your time but be quick

by my_inked_asterism



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Social Media, tinder au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 00:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_inked_asterism/pseuds/my_inked_asterism
Summary: When Stiles has taken a good step backwards to check the device, he’s suddenly flashed by a reddish light and his own smirking face smiling at him.“Oh no you didn't.”“Oh yes I did.” Scott smiles mischievously at his friend.He puts an arm around Stiles’ and forces him to sit down, maybe to avoid an anger breakdown – very wise of him.Together, they start scrolling on his photos gallery to pick some rare decent selfies of him, for Stiles’ new and willingly-created Tinder’s profile.





	Take your time but be quick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lydiastxles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lydiastxles/gifts).



> _"Tinder is a social app that facilitates communication between mutually interested users. Users use a left or right swipes to choose photos of other users and potentially match with them. Chatting on Tinder is only available between two users who have swiped right on one another's photos. Tinder is therefore commonly used as a dating services app."_  
>  ([source](https://www.quora.com/How-does-Tinder-work/))
> 
>  
> 
> **For[Fer (lydiastxles)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lydiastxles/pseuds/lydiastxles/) ❤︎ I love you babe. Forever grateful to be able to call you friend.**

“I can't live without her, Scott.”

“Oh, _come on._ Get over it, dude.”

“It’s been two days only!”

“Yes, and you guys have only dated for two months, too!”

Stiles grunts, not knowing how to confute that since Scott is actually right. Come to think  of it, he doesn't know if his heartbreak is due either to the breakup itself or to the bitter feeling of being dumped.

And he’s _never_ been dumped.

“Besides,” Scott’s voice cuts into his flood of thought. “You were _not_ in love. Like, not in love love with her.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “That’s not even true.”

“Whatever, dude.” Scott shrugs and turns his back to him, but Stiles could still feel a smirk on his tone. “Just a daily reminder that I can hear your heartbeats. Both when you’re in love or lying.”

“Damn it,” mutters Stiles. Then slightly louder, “Well, serves me right for dating random girls in the club.”

“Yeah.”

Scott’s answer is absent as he toys with something in his hands, still out of Stiles’ view, a fact that makes him quite suspicious. As curiosity takes the upper hand, he slowly approaches his best friend in order to find out what he’s up to.

“SCOTT WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY PHONE.”

“Trying to make you date random girls _out_ of the club,” he answers nonchalantly, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

“What.”

But before he has the time to process any of it, Scott lifts the phone to his eye level, almost smashing the screen on Stiles’ face which in fact causes him to blink even more rapidly than what he normally does. (He just probably set a new record.)

When Stiles has taken a good step backwards to check the device, he’s suddenly flashed by a reddish light and his own smirking face smiling at him.

“Oh no you didn't.”

“Oh yes I did.” Scott smiles mischievously at his friend.

He puts an arm around Stiles’ and forces him to sit down, maybe to avoid an anger breakdown – very wise of him.

Together, they start scrolling on his photos gallery to pick some rare decent selfies of him, for Stiles’ new and willingly-created Tinder’s profile.

 

* * *

 

Serotonin can surely be found in many more and healthier aliments than chocolate, and she’d also be able to list them all one by one if her level of pissiness wasn't so indirectly proportional to her serotonin’s.

“Was it _that_ bad?” Allison asks, tentatively.

Instead of replying, Lydia throws another piece of dark chocolate in her mouth, trying to forget the memory of last night’s date.

“Pass the jar of Nutella,” she orders to no one in particular.

“Oh. It was _this_ bad,” Malia states, as she stretches one hand to the lowest compartment and hands her the jar with a teaspoon already sunk inside.

Lydia turns around on her seat to the cutlery's box and grabs a big spoon.

“You’d texted us that he was competing to become a doctor!”

“And that you liked the restaurant he picked.”

“Besides,” Kira offers slowly. “You can't possibly only reject someone ‘cause he’s a premature ejaculator.”

Malia and Allison blink once, staring at their Asian roommate who in the meantime had flushed enough to blend in with her fuchsia Catwoman pajamas.

They turn to Lydia simultaneously. Then Allison goes, “Premature ejaculator?”

Her tone, together with Malia’s perfect arched brows, is the reason why she had only told Kira about this particular detail of her night out.

“How?” Malia asks after a pause.

“Lack of serotonin.” Lydia shrugs, focusing back on the brown creme in her spoon, avoiding any other question so that she doesn't have to give a lecture about chemicals. But as she catches the girls flashing her with an eyeroll (Allison), a confused expression (Kira), and a grimace (Malia), knowing by now that they won't let the conversation drop, Lydia sighs. “It inhibits some nerves of our system. In males, it can attack the ones that work as ‘brakes’ of the ejaculation.”

“So what about the chocolate?” Allison asks after a while.

“It contains serotonin.”

“So do bananas.”

“I like chocolate more.”

The trio glances at her, before staring at each other with a knowing look and sentencing in chorus, “No you don't.”

Lydia pouts and looks away with a grunt.

“Thank god we can't have these kind of problems,” Malia mutters at Kira, who, despite the scolding look on her face, still leans closer to drop a peck on her lips, leaving the werecoyote dumbstruck with heart eyes like the comics.

With how adorable that is, those two are making her even more frustrated than before.

“Lyds.” Allison ignores Malia’s comment and sits next to her, covering her hand on the table. At the contact, Lydia already feels upcoming tears forming at the corner of her eyes, so she takes another spoonful of Nutella, pretending to be unaffected by Allison’s sudden soft tone.

“You’ll find the one, I promise…. God, you deserve so much more than this.” She nods at her phone, forgotten on the table by now but still flashing with the texts Lydia keeps ignoring.

She closes her eyes, swallowing back the lump that had just formed in her throat, and after one last lick to the spoon, she sets the jar aside and reaches for her phone.

“Maybe,” Lydia says slowly. “For now though, _this_ is all I can get.”

The looks of disapproval barely touch her when she swipes left to discard the umpteenth guy on her screen.

 

* * *

 

Social media always requires photos. That’s the thing Stiles hates the most about being… social.

Video games’ accounts are so much easier – you just need to insert a fancy nickname and that’s it. As for the pic, the crazier it is, the cooler you are.

But here? Here, there are five pictures to add. _Five_. Stiles thinks five is probably the number of photos he has taken in his entire lifetime. For a moment he considers picking one from when he was a kid since people usually like it. Either one of those or a pic of his old puppy are enough to melt everyone who he’s been trying to flirt with.

At the end though, he chooses only three photos to show, so that no one will think he’s a poser. One is a picture from last summer, when he was well-tanned and heading back to the shore from a long swim. The other two are selfies: a close-up of his face, of his eyes in particular, that he took once just to observe the effect of the sunlight on his iris; the other one showing him with Scott on the roof of his jeep, smirking at the light of the nightfall.

The bio had been the hardest to decide. He couldn't just say, “Hey I'm Stiles. This is not my real name and I love Star Wars.” It had to be eloquent and concise, yet descriptive.

So he goes for the Latin.

_Reponsum in conatu esse debet._

_“_ What the hell is that,” Scott blurts out as he types it.

“Latin.”

“You serious?”

“Someone’s gonna like it.” Stiles nods seriously,  as if an account’s biography is such a big deal. “You’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

Malia and Kira are giggling on the couch, watching a rom-com, by the time she steps in the kitchen to prepare some toast.

The sound of their laughter fills her ears at once, and she lets it warm her heart as it always does, trying to avoid the thought of how much she wishes to be able to feel that way with someone as well.

She’s smiling, with her french toast in one hand and a glass of Diet Coke in the other, when she realizes the giggles have stopped. Lydia turns around to the living room, adjacent to their kitchen, only to find the couple tangled horizontally on the couch, in the middle of an intense makeout session.

“You guys? I have to _sit_ on that couch!” Lydia shouts in indignant tone, rushing to her room already.

“Oh Lyds, we did way worse than _this_ ,” she hears Malia shout back, a smirk hidden in her voice.

Lydia closes the door behind her with an eyeroll at Malia’s implication, shaking her head but still smiling.

When she enters, Allison is sprawled on her own bed, back against the mattress while reading a book and looking absolutely gorgeous even without the minimum effort.

“Was it getting gross?” She smirks, looking up at her.

“Nah, but I like pornos better when they’re onscreen.”

Allison throws her head back to laugh and Lydia joins her on her bed, sitting beside her.

“So,” Allison starts casually. “Found anyone?”

Lydia shrugs. “Haven't looked for anyone yet since last night.”

“You wanna try now?”

“Now?”

Allison hums positively.

“With you?” For how endless her love for Allison might be, checking guys on Tinder with your best friend doesn't really sound like the best of daily activities.

“Don't you tell me I embarrass you, Lyds. I'm not your mom for god’s sake, I won't judge!”

Lydia stills, considering the situation. Maybe Allison could help pick a guy who could last longer than one night, after all. And even if it was a one-time thing, she would better know if he’s a person to trust.

Weird enough, Allison always seems to have a sort of jerks-radar that had protected, prevented, or warned Lydia whenever she started dating someone who wasn't remotely to her friend’s liking. She would never interfere in her relationships, but she also never missed the chance to let Lydia know her own opinion, kindly but directly.

So with that thought and hope, Lydia looks at her best friend and says, “Okay.”

It takes the girls only a couple of minutes to lay down on their belly covered partly by Allison’s soft duvet. With the phone in Lydia’s hands, they start swiping together, checking on the limitless pictures of boys that to Lydia all look the same.

By the time they had already discarded basically every single person the app suggested, an hour had passed and now they find themselves upside down on the mattress with the phone above their heads, scrutinizing every single one with weary eyes.

“This one is hot.”

“Ally, I abolished gym photos in front of the mirror at least seven months ago.”

“What happened seven months ago?”

“Don't ask,” she mutters back, swiping to the left.

She doesn't, and the silence fills the air between them for a few seconds.

“He’s cute.” Allison tilts her head to check the next guy. A tall, well-shaped young man, not too tough but with broad shoulders and dark hair. His defined jawline is quite attractive, and the mischievous smirk he shows almost gets to turn her on, with those incredibly white teeth and thin lips but–

“I hate blue eyes.” And she swipes left again.

“What? Why?”

“I … don’t know.” She does, but admitting to feel influenced by a physical trait that she learned to associate with her absent father or abusive ex-boyfriend hurts way more than pretending. “They make me feel uncomfortable,” she says instead, cutting the topic.

Allison doesn't seem interested in finding out more, or maybe she has gotten it all already. Whatever, Lydia’s glad for her silence.

“Hey, look at this one.” Allison breaks her train of thought and passes her the phone.

On her screen this time, a picture of a brunette and very wet boy flashes her and immediately reaches her lower belly, making her jaw drop the moment her eyes land on the soft yet well-defined muscles of his abdomen and the inviting happy trail that hides under his boxers.

Scrolling through his photos, she gets stuck on one of his warm eyes. Lydia can't help but be mesmerized at the sight of them, hit by rays of sunshine that make them sparkle golden, matching beautifully with the whiskey sides left in the shadow.

She drowns in them, until Allison changes pictures and lets out a content hum as she does so.

“His friend isn’t bad either.”

“No,” Lydia whispers absently, her eyes still stuck in those amber ones. “He’s not bad at all.”

Dang, she can feel Allison’s grin even without watching her.

And then without warning, Allison’s finger pushes on ‘like’.

Holding their breaths, they expect to see the same exclamation that always shows up those rare times they swipe right.

It doesn't. No _it's a match_ framed by colorful confetti appears on her screen.

Oh. Okay.

Interesting…

 

* * *

 

They sit on the desk, well-prepared and equipped with anything required by such research: snacks on one side, the feeble light bulb of the small desk lamp as the only support for the neon light of the screen, a porno magazine resting on the table’s corner to remind them of what their goal is, and Stiles’ phone lying solely between the two best friends.

“Remember,” Stiles starts, serious. “First rule is to avoid trash names.”

Scott turns to face him and arches his brows in amusement. “Trash names?”

“Yeah, you know, such as brands’ names or anything like Tammy or Dolly or Misty or those ugly ones that end with ‘line’.”

“You watched _Ted_ again, didn't you.”

“Yes…” Stiles looks down with a pout as Scott chuckles at him and reaches for the phone to open the app.

“Man, if people judged _you_ for your name you’d lose even those rare human interactions you call a social life.”

“Funny to say for someone who scratches his ears with his foot at parties.”

“It happened once only!” Scott shouts back, resentful.

Stiles grins, repressing a burst of laughter at his friend's embarrassment, and focuses back on the phone.

He swipes left immediately when he spots the first girl’s pic on the screen.

“Dude what are you doing?! She was hot!”

“She was blonde,” Stiles states while scrolling through the photos of another girl called Laura and finally deciding to discard her.

“What’s wrong with blondes?”

“Britney was blonde.”

“So only ‘cause your ex had just one _physical_ trait similar to this girl you gotta rule her out?”

“Childish hmm? But it helps a lot with selecting,” Stiles replies sarcastically, making Scott roll his eyes.

“Now what,” Scott hisses as Stiles swipes left for the tenth time in the past couple of minutes.

“I don't like brunettes.”

Scott’s gaping at him now, eyes wide in exasperation. “Wh–”

“I like light hair! You know that, Scotty!”

“You don't pick brunettes ‘cause you don't like dark hair, you don't pick blondes either ‘cause they remind you of your ex. Stiles you better fix this or I swear to God I'm gonna shove my razor-like claws up your–”

“Wow.”

Scott’s eyes quickly follow his look and land on the phone in Stiles’ hands.

“Oh.” Scott gains composure and bends closer to check the new girl. “We… we hadn't thought about–”

“Gingers,” Stiles finishes for him, a dumb smile crossing his face. “Yeah.”

It probably takes Stiles two good minutes to realize the girl on his screen is, in fact, real and made of flesh and blood.

She wears a simple summer dress in her first photo, resting on a bar table and laughing with a transparent cocktail on one hand and the other used as support behind her. There’s no light in the garden where she was so brilliantly immortalized and yet, she’s literally _glowing_.

He can't hear the sound of her laughter, or the softness of her hands, the perfume of that red cascade on her bare back, or the taste of gin on her lips, but still, all those things get straight to his heart in a blink of eye, in a way that no other girl ever did through just the sight of one single photo.

The next picture – one showing her in a bikini, at the edge of a pool – doesn't get only to his heart.

It’s when Scott clears his throat louder than usual that Stiles realizes he hasn’t closed his mouth since he started staring at her.

“So you like her,” the alpha states, beaming.

“She’s a goddess.”

“Is her name fine enough for you?” he then jokes.

Oblivious as he’s been, Stiles hadn't read her name at all, struck by her beauty in the first place.

 _Lydia_.

“It’s Greek,” he says.

“Nice. Swipe right.”

“No.”

Scott blinks at him in disbelief.

“Why.”

“She’s a goddess,” Stiles repeats.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski, swipe the fuck right or I swear to god I’ll post your real name on Facebook.”

“Okay okay,” Stiles surrenders as he slides his finger on the phone. “You should change threat though, Scotty. It’s getting boring after eighteen years.”

He stops talking when his jaw drops open for the second time that day, eyes wide as he looks at the screen in his hand, now painted in colorful confetti coming out from fireworks of pixels.

Scott grins at him. “Why would I? It always works.”

 

* * *

 

_[21:37] hey :)_

 

“Ally he texted me!”

“Don't they always? How are you that surprised?”

“No no, Ally. _He_ texted me.”

“So text him back!”

“Yeah, right.”

 

_[21:39] Hi!_

_[21:44] The Latin quote in your bio is incorrect._

 

* * *

  
Stiles rereads the message about five times before allowing himself to stop blinking.

Is that a new way of flirting? Did he miss something during the last couple of months?

He rolls on his back, getting more comfortable against the soft mattress of his bed and types the answer.

 

_Stiles [21:50] mmm what?_

_Lydia [21:52] It’s responsum, not reponsum. You misspelled it…_

_Lydia [21:52] it means “the answer must be in the attempt” right?_

_Stiles [21:24] you know archaic latin??_

_Lydia [21:25] I got bothered with classical Latin._

_Lydia [21:27] :)_

 

Why, on Earth, is he having a boner over this.

 

_Stiles [21:29] and I was trying to be mysterious_

_Lydia [21:30] I only know six languages, you just had bad luck._

_Stiles [21:33] maybe you could lemme have another try on a date_

 

There’s a pause in which his heartbeat fills his ears and works as a metronome as he reads over and over again his response. He’s been bold, no doubt about it. Usually it would've taken him at least ten more texts to ask a girl out and about five more to convince her that yes, it was a good idea.

He’s starting to regret the skip of stages when he spots the word _typing_ … appear back under Lydia’s contact.

 

_Lydia [21:43] this is my number, text me for updates._

 

Never has he ever in his entire lifetime jumped so high for a sequence of numbers.

 

* * *

 

The last time she wore skinny jeans and a wide neckline at the same time, on a date, the boy she was with never looked her in the eyes the whole night.

Which she’s not complaining, she knows better how to dress up depending on the reactions she wants to get. She just wishes that sometimes someone could take her more seriously, could look _beyond_ her body.

With that thought, she still decides to keep the high waisted navy jeans on but grabs a half-sleeved pastel crop top and puts it on. She moisturizers, slightly blushes her cheeks, applies the rimmel and a dusty rose lipstick before focusing on her hair.

She had just started curling a lock of hair around the iron when she hears a soft crack coming out from the closed door. For a while, Lydia pretends to ignore it, until one of the cracks turns into a whisper and she quietly stands up, reaching the wooden to door to open it with a quick move.

As expected, all three girls almost stumble on her when she does so.

The whole scene is so comedic Lydia struggles to keep her scolding look up, pressing her lips together so that she won't betray herself.

If it wasn't for Malia, Kira would’ve had her face smashed on the floor for how pressed against the door she was, saved by her girlfriend’s reflexes last minute. Allison, for her part, had limited herself to hide apart on her side of the bedroom, face scarlet and eyes wide in shame.

After making sure that Kira was safe, Lydia turns to Allison in wait of an excuse.

“Uhm… we – we were… you know,” the brunette stutters.

“I do, but I’d love to hear it from you,” Lydia says, feigning annoyance and crossing her arms on her chest.

Allison sighs, accepting her reproachful stare like a grounded puppy, before hissing, “We just wanted to make sure you were okay! You seem to like him a lot–”

“I don't,” she insists, looking away. “I don’t even know him.”

“Juliet didn't know Romeo either when she fell in love,” Kira meddles with a dreamy voice.

“Yes and look how it ended,” snaps Lydia, drawing her attention back to the curling iron.

“You look so pretty.” Malia takes a seat next to her. The others join them right away.

“We could do your hair. There’s still time, right?” Kira asks.

“I'm meeting him at six,” Lydia checks her watch, indicating that there’s still half an hour left. But as the Allison takes the curling iron out of her hand to handle it to Kira, she protests. “Girls! It’s not a wedding or something. There’s no need!”

“I have this feeling it’s gonna be special,” Allison chantes. She winks at the others who mirror her at once and start combing her hair, ignoring Lydia’s protests for good.

She fights against admitting she’s actually feeling the same way and lets them do it.

Twenty minutes afterwards she's saying goodbye to her rommates, curls loosening on her back and heels tapping against the cement of the sidewalk that leads her to the parking lot he mentioned in his text.

Despite her gait being slow, since the meeting point is only ten minutes walking from her place, she finds herself panting at the anticipation. Whether the sensation is positive or negative, she can't tell.

What if his voice is ridiculously high-pitched? Like that time she was approached by a national football player on Instagram and when she met him it was like talking with a chipmunk caged in a Greek god’s statue. What if he bites his fingernails? She had fought her entire childhood against that bad habit; she refuses to take even one single hypnosis session more and risk to be influenced by people who can't deal with the daily stress.

What if those pictures of his (gorgeous) eyes are edited and they’re just… mediocre brown? Oh my god, what if he uses _filters_ on photos? What if he’s–

“Perfect,” she murmurs, and all the usual crowd of the late evening vanishes when she spots him.

He has his back resting against a column of the square, wearing a button-up dark green flannel and dark pants. He’s listening to music as his eyes dart around to find her, earphones on and long fingers drumming against his thigh at the rhythm of the song.

She takes him in, noticing how much taller he is in person, how much softer his hair looks even with the gel applied to make it stick up, how much sharper his cheekbones are. He looks just… _more_.

Feet start moving before her mind can process it, and as she does so, like a sort of alarm or date-radar, his head turns so quickly she sees him wince slightly at the movement. She doesn't ask herself how he knew. She keeps telling herself that it’s just coincidence.

But then his eyes land on her, his jaw drops almost at the same time, and holding his gaze becomes impossible if she wants to get to him without stumbling.

“Hi,” she greets him as she approaches. “I’m Lydia.”

“I figured,” Stiles replies, still gaping at her, his eyes too busy scanning her figure to focus on one single point.

He looks at her, finally. He smiles and leans in and for a moment Lydia freezes, uncertain of her movements. Her shoulders relax as his lips brush her cheek, so softly as to leave her wanting for more, although she doesn't say it. Not yet.

She smiles back at him. His look is one of awe and finality, and she wonders if it’s an ordinary occurrence for two people to gaze at each with such intensity only a couple of minutes after meeting.

“Lydia.” His smile widens and he offers her his arm. “It’s _really_ nice to meet you.”

 

 

For how much silence is said to be more eloquent than words sometimes, Lydia can’t help but notice how decisively Stiles’ feet seem to lead them both, heading towards what looks like a precise destination.

“Where to?” She finally asks with a lightness in her tone she had forgotten the sound of.

“Uhm… well,” he hesitates, “I think you once mentioned in a text that you like rom-coms? When you were watching one with your flat mates I think. So, er, I heard they just premiered a Pretty Woman musical version at the central theater in town. It’s okay if you don't like it, we can totally go for a drink or keep walking I was just thinking–”

“Stiles.” Lydia stops his ramble almost as breathless as he is for the emotion. She did tell him, indeed. She just didn't expect him to pay attention, to remember.  

“It’s… perfect.”

He beams. His eyes light up in a way that makes her want to see it – to cause it – again. “All right then.”

They keep walking side by side.

“You like them too?”

“Rom-coms?”

She hums an affirmative response.

“I do. I used to at least.” His eyes get unfocused for a minute. Or sad maybe? “I used to watch them with my mom all the time when I was a kid.”

Lydia chuckles. “Then puberty came and pornos got the upper hand?”  

He laughs as well, but Lydia notices how that doesn't reach his eyes as before. “Yeah that was a phase,” he admits, before swallowing hard. “But, uh, unfortunately I stopped watching rom-coms even earlier than that. My mom died when I was seven.”

“Stiles…” She chokes on her own words, as if a cold shower just fell on her. “I'm so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It’s not, she sees it. Sees _him_. “I brought that up myself anyway. Maybe I'll tell you more about her next time.”

She misses a step.

_Next time._

He must’ve realized his bold choice of words because suddenly his spine straightens beside her, muscles going rigid, and if she looked up to him she swears she’d find his eyes open wide in panic.

He doesn't try to correct himself though, and stays silent instead. A part of her, the stupid hopeful one, had wished he didn’t.

“So,” he starts casually, bringing her back to reality. “Flat mates you said?”

Lydia smiles. “We’re four. It’s a small loft with two double rooms. It’s not the best, especially when it’s all four of us at home and the house turns into a mess, but it's… home. They make me feel like it is at least.”

“That’s nice.” His tone is soft. “You all knew each other before sharing the apartment?”

“Uhm not really. I knew Kira and Malia here when I moved in this winter. They both work here and share the other room… I think they’ve been together for a year or so by now? They act like a married couple all the time anyway so…” She trails off.

“I'm sharing the room with my best friend, Allison. She’s moved to Virginia with me for an internship, ‘cause she’s studying political science and wants to gain some credit to apply to UC Davis’ law school –”

“You’re kiddin’, my best friend wants to apply to UC Davis too!” Stiles interrupts her, grinning. “He just took a summer break to work as a vet in Richmond and will try the admission to the vet school.”

“Is he the guy in one of your Tinder pics?”

“Yeah, the puppy-like dude.” She chuckles and he smiles at her, but for the softness in his voice she can tell how much this person must mean to him.

“They should meet each other,” Lydia offers then, refraining from a smirk at the memory of Allison’s comment on Stiles’ friend.

He laughs softly, and nods and Lydia’s heart melts a little bit at the sound of it.

“What about you?” He then asks her. “Why would a fairytale princess ever move to boring old Virginia?”

“I … finished my exams in December . I moved on here ‘cause I won a special scholarship that allows me to get access to Marines scientific labs for a research project.” Lydia finishes so tentatively, already feeling the usual questions coming.

“For _research_?”

“...yes.”

“You are graduated.”

“Yep.”

“How old a–”

“I'm twenty one.”

Stiles blinks so fast she thinks he just got a short circuit in his brain or something.

“ _How_.”

“I, uhm, got admitted as junior at MIT when–”

“You studied at _MIT_?!”

“Y–yeah.”

And that is unexpected– the look on his face. She’s said it before, to other guys at other dates, but no one had ever made _that_ look.

Half didn't even know what MIT was, so their expressions were mostly indifferent or they were just impressed she attended college at all. The other half that knew her college and its reputation didn't care much as long as she was lying naked in their bed by the end of the night. Being intelligent was just another benefit.

But the look on Stiles’s face? Totally new.

He’s dumbstruck. Like he couldn't believe his eyes that she could be _that much_ . His mouth forms a perfect O, his eyes widen in surprise, and sparkles of admiration ( _admiration_ goddammit) fill them and make them even more golden if possible, even though the sun was far from bright behind them.

“God, you must be so smart,” he sighs, taking her in one more time before crossing the entryway of the theater she hadn't realized they reached.

Inside, on her seat, as the music plays and dancers pirouette around Vivian in LA’s slums, all the lyrics of the show seem so fading in comparison with those five words playing on repeat in her head, louder and deeper.

 

* * *

 

Vivian is about to get attacked by Philip on the stage when Stiles brushes Lydia’s fingers across the arm of their joined chairs. It’s an instinct of protection he never had before with a girl, even less with one he just met.

The actress, though very talented, has nothing to do with Julia Roberts, physically. She might be just as thin and tall and elegant, but her skin is paler, her lips way too big, and her hair is ginger.

Maybe it’s the hair – the reason why he can't stop imagining Lydia in Vivian’s place. Or maybe it’s because she’s sitting next to him with dreamy eyes and a smell of coconut and strawberries that’s sending his mind elsewhere, making it hard for him to not lean closer to sniff her like a perv.

He’s stared at Lydia’s hair for a while by now, out of the corner of his eye. At the start it was just for science, trying to make comparisons with the actress's. By the time he realizes all the light differences and shades of colors it gets whenever a different spotlight hits a beautiful curl of hers, Stiles has decided that Lydia’s hair is anything but similar to the ginger on the stage.

She’s not ginger, in fact. Her hair is actually strawberry blonde.

With her eyes still stuck on the violent scene in front of them, he feels Lydia’s fingers squeeze his hand back, and he smiles.

As they get out of the theater, hands still tangled together without even realizing, she asks him why that scene made him so upset. He doesn't tell her that for a moment he had pictured her tiny figure broken by some man, or that he’d wanted to hold her to let her know he would never do such a thing to her, that she could be safe with him.

He doesn't tell her that he’s already caring _so much_ about her.

Instead, Stiles decides to give her a lecture about his elevated sense of justice, slightly changing topic by telling her about his career at the FBI and how he used to solve crimes for his dad all the time when he was in high school.

He looks down at her (she's wearing stilettos and is still _so_ small), and finds her staring back at him.

Her eyes are full of admiration, suddenly so incredibly big with curiosity.

He hadn't realized how green they are until that moment, and well… _wow._

She asks him more, and he’s struck by how detailed and well-aimed her questions are, how genuinely interested she seems to be. She tells him her dad used to collaborate with the FBI a lot when he was a penal lawyer, before he switched to the financial field.

He catches the shade of sadness in her tone but doesn't ask more about her father, and she seems glad of it.

They’re only five minutes away from her place when she says so and Stiles, now more aware of her hand in his, gently starts drawing circles on her palm with his thumb to comfort her.

Lydia’s face suddenly gets redder, clearly surprised at the realization of that contact, and for a moment Stiles fears to have been too bold, or to have crossed a line they hadn't really traced yet but that always seems to be there, somehow.

But she stays silent instead. Her shoulders relax again, her cheeks turn back to porcelain and her lips slightly upwards.

Maybe he’s too busy trying to breathe properly, but he could swear her grip tightens a little bit around his hand.

* * *

 

“Here it is.”

She stops him in front of the door’s apartment that reads hers and the girls’ name on the bell ring.

With a malicious wink, Allison had told her she’d sleep at a friend’s place that night, while Malia and Kira, like every Friday night, had gone to the gay club three blocks away from them.

That _of course_ has nothing to do with the way Lydia’s eyes suddenly stare boring on Stiles’ broad shoulders. Or the pulsing vein of his neck. Or the beautiful constellation of moles on his cheek that leads right to his lips and his pretty marked cupid’s bow. She wonders how well it could fit between her legs…

“Uhm I – it was fun. I really had a good time.” Stiles smiles fondly but as she spots his ears flushing, he looks away, his attention suddenly drawn to the sidewalk.

“Yeah.” Her voice is low. “Me too.”

And  suddenly she’s the girl in the movie who stands under her own porch and waits for the guy to do the first move, leaning on her so that their lips would be only inches away, almost brushing and yet not touching. She’d be the one to close the distance left between them, to tug him by that stupid flannel she’s been staring at for the past twenty minutes trying to fancy what’s hidden behind it.

“See you soon then, Lydia.”

The smack of his lips on her cheek leaves her shaken for a moment.

If someone asked her, she’d never say it happened. She barely saw that coming, didn't have the time to enjoy that fragile second in which his mouth brushed her skin and maybe not-so-accidentally landed on the dimple caused by her smiling.

But the smile quickly ebbs away when her jaw drops in disbelief, mouth gaping at the first boy who ever took her out for a date – a wonderful one like she hadn’t had in _ages_ – and didn't expect anything in return but her gratitude.

And now he’s waving at her, as his feet start to move backwards towards the parking lot where he left his car. And she’s whispering him goodbye, her voice incapable of getting louder for the epiphany that that boy just turned out to be. And she wants him, she wants him, _she wants him._

And she lets him go.

 

* * *

 

Every step closer to the jeep is a cell more of his body shouting at him to get back to her.

He’s acting rationally though, and he knows it’s the right thing to do. He wanted to stay, oh god, he wanted. He would’ve told her how beautiful she looks under the moonlight, would’ve kissed her eyes first, that have been staring at him with that quizzical expression he’s trying with all his heart not to describe as expectant.

She needs to be treated well, to feel safe, and he has this obscure thought in mind that she’s not very used to the feeling. So he won’t be another one to add to the list of those who want just one thing from her.

He refuses to let her think the only thing he thought about all night long might have been to get in her pants. There’s no need to rush this, and if that means letting her feel respected like she deserves to be, he’ll wait for her.

They’ll see each other again; he’ll text her the following morning – maybe at evening or she’ll think he’s too clingy – and he’ll ask her out. Maybe he could call her instead – her voice is so beautiful… she doesn’t even try to be hot and yet she’s effortlessly sensual and eloquent at the same time.

He loves listening to her talk or laugh or how she corrects him on his grammar, how she says his name and he can glimpse her tongue hit her palate as she does so. He likes when she talks science to him like it’s the most basic of everyday topics, with such simplicity in her tone that she seems to be born to _know_. Earlier in the date, she was telling him about this new astrophysics book she’d found so innovative… but she couldn’t get deeper into the topic because the show started and everything concerning the cosmos was left aside for a couple of hours.

 _Shit_ he never asked her what her favorite book is! She must have tons of books in her room, around her bed, on the shelves, she probably got one book per purse so that she makes sure she’ll never be without a good read wherever she goes. He wants to know, he wants to know, he wants to know _her._

And he smiles.

“Screw it.”

Stiles almost knocks over an old lady for the impetus of his turn.

Thank goodness he had walked for only a few meters, so getting back to Lydia’s place doesn’t take him long by running.

He finds her with her back turned to him, keys in one hand and the other holding  her phone as she types texts that make the screen flash.

The bluish light coming from her phone partly illuminates her face, revealing a pair of gloomy eyes that look even sadder when cast in that shade.

His heart clenches at the sight of her, the hammering inside his chest unwilling to slow down, not even when he stops breathless to stare at her, taking her in.

Then, with one last shaky breath, he walks towards her.

She turns around when he’s already halfway to get to her and as soon as she realizes his intentions she’s facing him and a second later his lips are on hers and her arms are around his neck and oh, ain’t this paradise.

What had started like a gasp from her quickly turns into a moan as Stiles moves his mouth against hers and circles her waist with his arms, lifting her just a little from the ground. The kiss is rough, their lips move in sync and teeth scrape each other’s mouths. Lydia tilts her head to get better access and one of her hands lowers to his neck at the same time, right above his pulse point that he knows is now embarrassingly rapid.

He’s just started opening his mouth to finally taste her tongue when Lydia slowly pulls apart, her hands now both on his chest to push him gently, catching his lower lip in her mouth as she does so and causing him to let out a groan.

“Wanna get inside?” she pants, nudging towards the door with her head.

Stiles nods, way too enthusiastically for the way he sees her hide a chuckle as she takes his hand and leads him upstairs.

He follows her, so hypnotized by the swing of her perfect hips that he barely makes it to the third floor without stumbling.

With all probability the apartment is pretty and for sure it does smell good, like cookies and lavender and other sweet things he can’t catch because as soon as the door closes behind him Lydia’s mouth is back on his and it takes him less than six seconds to react. All his senses focus on her, oblivious to what surrounds him and pushing back the eventual tour of the flat to the following day. Lydia throws her purse to the nearest armchair and wraps her arms around his shoulders, her hands making their way under his flannel.

Stiles groans as she softly scratches his back with her nails in a way he hopes will leave marks for a while. He’s positive he won’t forget this night and he wants to make sure his body is proof of that.

Feeling bolder, his hands slide down from her waist and rest on her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze she seems to appreciate for the moan that escapes from her lips as he does so, and without more ado Stiles lifts her up. She tangles her legs around his waist and starts grinding her hips against his nice and slow. For a moment he’s afraid his legs won’t handle the arousal.

Lydia seems to catch the struggle in his movements, and he feels the corner of her mouth turn up slightly against his own. With the excuse of sucking on his earlobe, she places a soft kiss on his cheek before whispering in his ear, “Bedroom is the first door on the left.”

At the sound of her voice, hoarse and low on his skin, Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. A few minutes later Lydia has her back against the mattress, heels off on the parquet, and one of his hands cupping her pussy underneath her jeans.

Resting on one side, Stiles looks down on her, taking a while to admire her flushed cheeks, the way she’s sucking hard on her bottom lip as his index finger puts just the right pressure on her clit above her lacy thong.

With  a groan of frustration Lydia suddenly sits up and gets rid of the skinny jeans, opening the cavern of her legs to him and letting him remove the already damp panties so that she’s now in her crop top only.

“That’s kinda unfair,” she lets out, breathless, pointing at him still very covered.

He presses a little harder on her clit and she whimpers. “I was waiting for you to help me take all of this off but you look quite out of sorts,” he says teasingly.

A flame burns in the green of Lydia’s eyes and Stiles finds himself trapped between the bed and Lydia’s covered breasts in a heartbeat.

She takes his flannel away first, then the shirt underneath, swearing his name for all those layers of clothing and cutting off his replies by kissing him hard again. His hips meets hers on instinct, and he watches her lift her top above her shoulders only to reveal the most beautiful boobs Stiles has ever been lucky enough to see, covered in a lacy purple bra matched with her thong.

He has both his palms on her waist and the tip of his dick throbbing against her entrance achingly, and still, he would stop the world from rotating only to be able to stare at her just a minute more.

He combs her hair, as he desired to do all the time back in the theater and tucks a loosened curl behind her ear. The tenderness in his gesture makes her stop moving her hips, and she looks at him.

God, eyes shouldn’t be allowed to be that big, that green, that intense, and that sparkly all at the same time.

“You’re _so_ fucking beautiful.”

Her cheeks get redder and he decides he loves it, so he rolls over, laying her on her back again, and kisses her more passionately this time. Soon his pants join the rest of her clothes on the floor, immediately followed by his boxers and her bra, and after this last piece of clothing gets removed, he silently notes to himself to pray to Jesus more often for that glorious bosom.

His palm traces her side almost reverentially, from her shoulder where he can count the galaxies of freckles decorating her skin, down to the side of her breast, her flat belly marked by a whitish scar he wants to ask more about in the future, and by the time his fingers get to brush her folds, he feels Lydia holding her breath in preparation.

He kisses her as he pushes two fingers inside of her, and by now he’s totally lost in her.

Her hips start moving again to set a rhythm with his hand, while he busies his mouth on the smooth skin of her neck, sucking hard to leave a bruise but gentle enough not to hurt her.

One hand of hers is tangled in his hair, the other squeezing a breast and playing with her own nipple when she moans louder than before, “Stiles, more. _Please._ ”

She is going to be the death of him.

The pleading in his name goes straight to his cock, and without breaking the eye contact, he massages her once more before removing his fingers, slowly, and putting them in his mouth. He moans at the taste of her, leaving him wanting for more so that he mentally tells himself to go down on her the following morning.

But right now he needs to feel her warmth around him.

He tells her so, making himself room between her legs and kissing her softly on the neck as he whispers dirty words in her ear in the process. Stiles feels her shivering, her arms hugging him as tightly as if she’s afraid he might slide away at every moment, and without thinking he has his arms around her waist in a sort of hug as well. The height difference has him facing her boobs, and unable to waste such a change he buries his face in them, kissing every inch of her chest he can get and feeling one hand of hers reaching for his scalp to tug him closer.

In the meantime he’s thrown away his boxer briefs, and then his hands are on her hips and he lifts her just a little as he comes to kneel in front of her, his knees working as support under her ass and allowing him to have the best view of hers.

For a moment, everything is sacred. Time stops around them as they glance at each other, and although she currently has her legs spread open on his lap, her nipples red from his sucking and lips swollen so incredibly big and _hot,_ he physically can’t remove his eyes from hers.

He’s mesmerized by the sincerity in them, holding so much passion and desire for him. But it’s not just that. It’s the fierce look she’s flashing, the regal pose she strikes even when her body is bare and more likely to be vulnerable.

 _She’s a goddess_ , he thinks, remembering his first impression of her the first time he saw her pic on Tinder.

Stiles gives himself a few strokes before placing his length on her clit, tentatively, which causes her to startle. He’s never wanted to please someone as much as he does now.

Insecure at first, he slides his tip between her folds to tease her and she jerks in front of him, looking for more friction. She moans his name, begging him to do something, _more_ , but he doesn’t want to fill her yet, determined to bring them both close to their climax first.

He positions his cock flat on her folds and, pressing it harder against her with one hand, he starts moving back and forth, circling her clit with his thumb ever since and teasing her entrance with his tip.

Lydia cries out, moaning with him at the feeling of their bodies so close to joining, her core pressed against his hardness. It's so warm Stiles swears, her heat pooling inside him at once.

“Does that feel good enough, Lydia?” he pants, moving faster. Lydia nods vigorously and looks up at him, tears at the corner of her eyes. “I want to make you feel so good, baby. So good. Oh sh–”

Then a sudden drop of precum spills on her lower belly, causing him to mutter a loud, “ _Fuck_.”

But Lydia’s reached for the nightstand already, taking out a condom from it. She hands it to him, before readjusting herself with the small of her back on his knees.

He’s about to push in when she suddenly props on her elbows and places a shaky hand on his chest to stop him.

“Y–you were leaving.”

There’s a pause, in which he tries to call all his synapses back to work and formulate the right answer.

“I was trying to be respectful.” It’s what he says eventually, hoping it makes sense.

“Respectful?”

“I didn’t want you to think I met you for it – for this… only.”

She blinks at him, a quizzical expression crossing her face. “You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t.” He caresses her legs to show how much he means it.

She takes her time to process it, and he smiles at her in reassurance.

“But… you came back.”

“I couldn’t really help it.” He sighs.

There’s a knowing look shared between them, and then she finally smiles back at him, sliding forward without warning and taking him inside her.

He gasps loud, so close already to his relief. He can tell her orgasm is building rapidly too by the noises she makes and the flushed spots framing her collarbone, so he starts moving fast, harder. Every thrust matches with a beat of his heart, every inch of her skin he touches is a place to protect, every kiss is a memory to cling onto whenever dark times will come.

Every moan of hers is a promise from him to give her more, if she’ll let him.

So when they scream each other’s names as they come at the same time, and her arms tug him forward to meet her lips, he whispers against her mouth, “Of course I came back to you, Lydia.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a bad habit of hers – forgetting to close the blinds whenever she’s too sleepy. Allison always blames her for that.

This morning though, it’s not the warm sunlight coming through the window that wakes her up. On the contrary, Lydia opens her eyes at the feeling of cold around her, her bare skin already covered in goosebumps even before she wakes up.

The sheets are wrapped loosely around her back, and as she stretches one hand at her side, she’s not surprised to catch nothing.

She’d like to say she’s not used to it, but she is.

She also would like to act like she doesn't care, because it’s true, she normally doesn't. Then again, this time is different.

And what hurts the most is that she would like to admit – and sincerely – that she’d expected him to do this – to leave her. They make her promises constantly and break them even more often; what made her think he was different?

Yet this time, Lydia had had hope.

For some reason she fell asleep smiling in the hope – not certainty – that he would be there to warm her up at the very first morning breeze.

She licks her lips, the salt of a lonely tear at the corner of her mouth meeting the tip of her tongue, but still in denial, she refuses to associate that with sadness. With the heel of her hand, Lydia immediately dries her cheek as she stands up from the bed.

The room is quiet. The silence is broken only slightly by the regular snoring of Malia, which she’s gotten used to by now, from the room adjacent to hers. Checking the clock on the wall, she sees it’s late morning already, so the couple must’ve gotten back home late considering they’re still asleep. That’s good, she thinks. She doesn’t need anyone seeing her cry.

She’s already on the edge of bursting into tears when, closing the door behind her, she’s assaulted by the piercing smell of coffee and eggs, coming from the kitchen.

Her heart is pounding enough to hurt her chest even before she spots him.

She’s too struck by his presence to try to be some sort of silent; her attempt at tiptoeing fails miserably when she sees him standing in front of the stove, pan in one hand and a long spatula she didn’t know she had in the other. So by the time she’s making her way into the room, holding her breath, Stiles is turning around immediately – either from a noise she made or from feeling her presence somehow; she’s not sure which.

What she _is_ sure about? Now that he's smiling at her like that, the lump in her throat is nothing but a bad memory

“Hey,” he greets her softly. “I made omelets.” He tilts the pan slightly towards her to show her the golden disks in it, fried and almost ready to be served.

He’s wearing his green flannel from last night but with no shirt underneath, leaving his torso bare as well as his forearms where he had rolled up the plaid and revealed the hot path of his veins hiding underneath it.

She struggles to keep her composure and not jump on him. “ _Omelettes_ ,” she says instead, correcting him with a perfect and maybe exaggerated French accent.

He rolls his eyes and she loves it. “You better not annoy the man holding a spatula and your breakfast.”

Lydia chuckles, slowly getting closer to him across the table bar. “How long have you been up?”

“Not long. I’m just a light sleeper and your snoring roomie doesn’t help a lot.”

This time she bursts into laughter for good, and he smiles with her before focusing back on the meal and turning down the flame.

She watches him carefully taking the omelettes out of the pan, resting them on the dishes he had already prepared, including hers. Watches his bare abdomen holding his breath while he rolls the slices around the cheese in a meticulous way she didn’t expect from him.

She can’t stop trying to list all the things this boy has already done for her in less than twenty-four hours, things that no one else ever managed to do in a lifetime.

Lydia realizes she’s staring at him – gaping – when he calls her back to him.

“Ma chère mademoiselle, the dining room proudly presents your breakfast.” With the most ridiculous Lumière impression, Stiles places both their plates on the table and flashes her a dumb flirty look that has her in tears from laughing once more. But before joining him, something suddenly clicks for her.

With a peace inside she hasn’t felt in forever, Lydia backs up and heads to the couch where she threw her purse and everything in it the night before. Smiling, she finds her phone hidden under a pillow.

“Hey, come here or your omelette will get cold!” Stiles calls to her from the kitchen.

“I’m coming,” Lydia replies at once, while unlocking her phone. “Just a sec.”

“You better, I haven’t faked a perfect French accent for you only to be ignored.”

She lets out an amused huff and shakes her head at his remark. _Ignoring him_. Even the thought is weird to process.

It’s an automatic move. She opens the app, bad habit that it was, ignores all the upcoming messages in her queue, goes to the app’s settings, and clicks on “delete tinder account.”

Lydia has the feeling she’d find it easier to ignore the rest of the world than ignore him.

**Author's Note:**

> When you're clueless about how to end your fic...  
> ANYWAY.  
>   
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, [Anya (stilestilikeslydia)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineinthestorm/pseuds/sunshineinthestorm), for the _amazing_ beta-work and your helpful advices. My knowledge about USA culture got to another level thanks to you lol. Love you so much  <3
> 
> Comments are candies!! Feed me children, THANKS FOR READING XX
> 
> i'm martinlydia (prev. lydias-martin) on tumblr.


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